


it’s a nice day for a white wedding

by TooManyGaysTooLittleTime



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bad AU building, Everybody Lives, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/F, Fluff, M/M, Multi, basically my usual stuff then, gay marriage is allowed in Westeros now because I said so, just pretend he’s having a great time at the wall. with satin obvs, just. so much fluff., no beta we die like mad king aerys: decapacitated by the consequences of our actions, that’s the fic, they get married, unf sorry jon ur not in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25918504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime/pseuds/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime
Summary: Theon and Robb are getting married. During the course of their wedding planning, Arya reconnects with Myrcella Baratheon, and something more than a friendship blossoms between them.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Starks, Myrcella Baratheon/Arya Stark, Robb Stark & Starks, Starks & Starks, Theon Greyjoy & Starks, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	it’s a nice day for a white wedding

**Author's Note:**

> title is, unironically, from [billy idol’s white wedding](https://open.spotify.com/track/1gzIbdFnGJ226LTl0Cn2SX?si=J5paa3vMRbq28x7YN7FqyA)
> 
> just a little diddly i wanted to write as a break from my never ending WIP list

“Wait, you’re marrying Theon?” Sansa looks scandalised, eyebrows raised in judgement. 

At the head of the table, Robb buries his face in his hands. “I know, Sansa, I know. Trust me, I didn’t want this either!”

Arya flicks her fingers against the tankard in front of her, creating a resounding ringing that shuts her siblings up effectively. When they all turn to look at her, she remarks, “Theon is Theon, and if Robb wants to marry him, then we should just be grateful that he’s taking him off the rest of our hands.”

“Rude!” Robb cries.

“Who the fuck is being rude?” Theon scowls as the doors to the Great Hall bang open. Dark circles are under his eyes and, even this early into their wedding planning, he appears weary. 

“Arya, as usual,” Bran says placidly, eating another mouthful of putrid porridge. 

Theon whirls to Arya. “What did you say about my fiancé?”

Arya sighs and flicks a hand into the air overdramatically. “Sansa started it.” 

“Whatever,” Theon shrugs, softening as he usually does when it comes to anything involving Sansa. He goes to Rickon’s space and borrows the wooden spoon to scoop out a lump of porridge. Eating it, his face screws up into disgust. “You call _this_ food? We can’t have this at our wedding, darling, it’s fucking disgusting.”

“I know.” A hint of amusement seems to appear upon Robb’s lips. 

* * *

“Oh, yes.” Arya grins darkly as she examines the assortment of wedding garments brought by the tailor in Winterfell. She holds up a navy doublet and grey breeches striped with blue. “These are mine.” 

“Fine!” Sansa says loudly. “It took us long enough to find them, you can have it.”

Arya resists the urge to yell “Yess!” and caper about the room. She’s never liked any of the fanciful dresses that Catelyn had forced her into for any large events, and while she was distanced from the child she had been, she still preferred comfortable and easy-to-move-in clothes to the tight waists and skirts of the dresses. 

Sansa peruses the selection of dresses laid out on the table thoughtfully, the tailor hovering over her shoulder. She goes through blue ones, purple ones, silver ones, brown ones, black ones, every colour that Arya can imagine and a few more. Finally, her gaze settles on a silver dress decorated with roses across the bodice and skirt. 

The tailor notices her interested gaze and holds it up to her to measure. “Skirts a little long...” he remarks, “but we can fix them. Do you like it, my lady?” 

“Like it?” Sansa almost sounds like the giggly girl she used to be. “I _love_ it.”

* * *

“There’s going to be a delegation from the south arriving,” she hears Robb remark in muted tones. 

“Hm, yeah, I don’t care,” Theon’s voice is hushed. “So long as you keep on doing that serious face, I won’t be happy.”

“But, Theon, we have to welcome them—”

“You’re so fucking dedicated,” Theon declares, quietly through the wall, but not quietly enough. “I like it.”

“And you’re a pain in the—”

Whatever Robb was going to say next is muffled. 

* * *

Myrcella Baratheon seems like a ray of sunlight even in the dark early morning typical of the North. Her golden hair glints of its own volition, spectacular even with what must have been the minimum of maintenance. 

Arya is unable to help the words that spill from her: “Oh, she’s so fucking pretty.”

Robb’s head snaps up from where he’s staring at the ground. “Who taught Arya how to swear?!”

“Oh shit, she’s swearing now?” Theon asks, concern rising in his voice. 

Robb turns to Theon with wrath upon his face. “You—”

“—beautiful and lovely man, I know,” Theon says as the delegation reins to a halt in front of the castle. The portcullis is open, and they slip off their horses to enter. 

Tommen is announced by a breathless herald as he slips down, and Myrcella is but a tiny add-on to his list of titles. He shakes their hands with a beaming smile, but Arya is more invested in his sister than him. 

When Myrcella’s hand slides inside hers, she blushes, attempts to hide it by staring down as they shake hands. By the time she looks up, Myrcella has moved on to Bran.

* * *

“So,” Arya says over a plate of food, attempting to start a conversation, “how is it like down south?”

Myrcella swallows her bite of vegetables before answering, “My brother’s rule is going well, now that Cersei no longer is his regent: he splits it jointly with Stannis Baratheon. They are good to the people, but...”

“But what?” Arya prompts.

“No, it’s foolish.”

“Go on,” she pushes. 

Myrcella presses a hand to her head. “But I can’t help thinking that he is not doing enough. There are still people starving in the streets. There are still people who hate the Iron Throne for not assisting with their problems. I wish I could do more than merely hand out food.” She sounds wistful, like she’s chasing after a dream. 

“You want to be Queen,” Arya observes.

“Yes. I only want to help people.”

Arya leans in close and whispers in her ear, “I could kill the stupid tradition for you.” 

Myrcella laughs at that, a glorious noise that Arya hopes to hear a lot more of. “That’s a kind offer, Lady Stark.”

“Please, call me Arya.”

* * *

Bran points out the various seating arrangements for the wedding. “Sansa, you’re next to King Tommen. Arya, you’re next to Myrcella, who will be beside Tommen. And I and Rickon will be next to Hodor and Osha in the next row.”

Theon snorts. “Osha? She going to clean up?”

Sansa frowns in disapproval at him. “She’s a family friend by now. And I can assure you, she’ll look beautiful.”

“Whatever you say, Stark,” Theon assuages with a wave of his hand.

“Why am I behind everyone? I won’t be able to _see_ ,” Rickon complains.

Bran looks stumped. Finally, he says, “We’ll have you on Hodor’s shoulders for the ceremony, then.”

Arya bursts into laughter, clutching her sides as she doubles over. “Oh, _that’s_ going to be a sight.”

* * *

She drapes a long vine of flowers across the battlements, arranging it so that half of the flowers hang down in front and the other half hang behind. It’s coming up to midday, and Arya quickly finds herself sweating in her tunic and worn trousers as she swings the vine over the crenel.

“Here, let me help with that,” she hears, and looks up to see Myrcella holding the other end of the vine. They work to decorate the battlements in flowers together, and the task goes by much faster with assistance.

When the entirety of the castle is bursting with colour from the flowers, and the sun is overhead, they leave the battlements and Arya leads Myrcella to the kitchen, where she hops up onto the large wooden table. She pats the space beside her to encourage Myrcella to join her.

Gingerly, she gets up, crossing her legs neatly. Arya leans back against the wood of the table to reach for two sandwiches that Cook had made. They’re bacon and thick slices of cheese sealed in between two pieces of brown bread. She hands one to Myrcella and they eat them, the taste familiar to Arya from years of being given spare sandwiches from Cook.

It feels natural when Myrcella leans her head on Arya’s shoulder. Arya blushes, quite unexpectedly, at the contact, but she likes it.

“This is good fare,” Myrcella murmurs. “We don’t get anything like this in the south.”

“Benefits of the North, then,” Arya replies. She turns to Myrcella. “I like you here, you know.”

“I like being here with you,” Myrcella replies earnestly. She leans further into Arya’s side, a small smile on her face.

* * *

“I’m nervous,” Robb states as he fixes the collar of his doublet.

Arya frowns. “You’re marrying Theon, great love of your life, et cetera. Why should you be nervous? It’s not like you’re Sansa getting married off to Joffrey.”

Robb makes a face at the Joffrey comment. “I know. It’s just... what if everything goes wrong? What if Theon dies mid-ceremony?”

“I think he’d stay alive long enough to finish the vows and say fuck you to whoever was trying to kill him,” Arya jokes, raising a laugh from Robb.

“Yeah, he would.” Robb smiles and ruffles Arya’s hair despite her complaints. “Okay, you go take your place now. I’m marrying Theon in a few moments.”

“Robb, wait.” Arya pauses in front of the door. She smiles. “I’m happy for you.”

* * *

“Oh, you look _gorgeous_ , Arya,” Myrcella smiles as she sits down. Arya ducks her head into her shoulder to hide her blush.

“You too,” Arya replies earnestly. Myrcella is in green velvet edged with gold brocade, a cape hanging from her shoulders in a concession to the North’s coldness.

“Hush,” Sansa hisses to them good-naturedly, “the ceremony is starting.”

Chords resound from the weir wood organ, reverberating through the Great Hall in time with Robb’s steps towards Theon. His long blue cloak, embroidered with the Stark dire wolf in silver, drags on the flagstones as he approaches, a wide grin upon his face.

He looks stupidly in love, eyes adoring as he gazes towards Theon. Arya might have snorted were she not so happy for him.

Theon takes Robb’s hands in his own, black-gloved ones, staring into his eyes with a lovestruck look to equal, perhaps even supersede, Robb’s.

“Lift me up higher, I wanna _see_ ,” Rickon complains, the sound hushed. The priest intones the vows: the vows of the Starks twining with the Greyjoy vows, dire wolf and kraken locked in an embrace. Robb’s lips part to say “I do,” first, then Theon’s. When the priest motions for them to do so, Robb removes his Stark cloak, unclasping it and fitting it around Theon’s neck. It stands out against his yellow and black outfit. Theon, in turn, clasps his Greyjoy cloak around Robb’s neck, sealing the ceremony with a brush of lips against Robb’s bare neck. The priest coughs, and Theon shoots him a mischievous smile.

“You may now kiss,” the priest declares, and the two of them surge together, Robb throwing his arms around Theon’s neck joyfully. Sansa applauds them, happiness exploding over her face. Tommen joins in, then Rickon, then the entire hall is applauding, several in the back wolf-whistling.

They’re both blushing when they pull away from the kiss.

* * *

“Arya Stark,” Myrcella extends her hand, “would you do the honour of joining me in a dance?”

The Great Hall is full of couples twirling each other around. Theon’s and Robb’s cloaks swing as they dance together, occasionally grazing the long skirts of the women’s dresses.

Arya swallows, a small smile curling up her lips, and puts her hand in Myrcella’s. She stands up. “I’d love to.”

Myrcella leads her onto the floor, finding a space amid the swirling dancers. They join the next dance as the musicians strike up a softer, slower tune. If Arya was to hazard a guess, she would even call it a more romantic song.

She puts her hands around Myrcella’s waist and follows her movements, gaining a sense of rhythm as Myrcella leads her. Their bodies are pressed near to each other’s, Myrcella’s hand on Arya’s shoulder and the other one leading them.

Arya stares into Myrcella’s eyes as they turn in the dance, one hand loosening to slip into Myrcella’s outstretched one. When they move back together, they press closer into each other.

“ _And the fair lady kissed her knight, who told her that she was his light—_ ”

Myrcella leans in the tiniest bit and brushes her lips against Arya’s. Arya, struck dumb, can only smile giddily as she pulls away.

“ _The knight leaned in and gave her twain_ ,”

With a growing sense of bravery, Arya presses her lips to Myrcella’s, lifting herself up on tiptoe to reach. Myrcella lets go of Arya’s hand to cup her face and pull her closer.

“I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you,” Myrcella says when they break away, flushed brightly in the torchlight.

Arya grins uncontrollablyand grabs her hand to continue the dance.

**Author's Note:**

> what is a timeline? what is time? what is an accurate date? idk. im here for the FLUFF people.


End file.
